The figure before you looks all the more monstrous for how closely it resembles a human; the basic shape is there, but the proportions are all wrong, and the feral glee at seeing you belongs on the face of a starved predator seeing maimed prey.

“Always you bring such interesting things…”

You offer up the carefully wrapped package, and it picks apart the bindings with rapid motions.

“Hm, black fabric, polished workings, ivory handle.”

The figure works the mechanism, either sceptical or ignorant of the bad luck said to be brought on by unfolding an umbrella indoors.

“Classic gentleman’s accessory. Yet lonely I would be if that were all the tale to tell.”

The gaunt figure closes the umbrella and begins a more detailed examination: peering closely, stroking the artefact with too-long fingers, sniffing at it – vertical slits of nostrils flaring excitedly.

“Not ivory – bone.” It licks the handle. “Human bone.”

It turns the artefact this way and that in its hands, then stares intently at you – seemingly trying to map the shape of the hooked handle on to your anatomy.

“Shape unnatural. But no sign of breakage or tooling. Suggests… contortions, mutations – a craftsman skilled in… exotic materials.

“Ribs… not steel – silver.” It brings the umbrella up to the side of its head, forcing one of the ribs to bend out – the figure doesn’t appear to have any ears, but nonetheless seems to be listening intently. “Attuned.”

There is a deep, soft thud, and a roll of tools appears on the countertop. The figure pulls out a series of tuning forks and taps them in turn against the sliver struts, but none make any sound. The creature’s motions get more and more frantic as it tries smaller and smaller forks, before a wide grin splits its face.

“Beyond the Seventh Gate – farther than I have travelled.”

You still haven’t heard any sound from the forks, and will have to trust the creature’s word.

“Even more secrets it seems to hold. Close blinds, douse lights. What does mushroom-glow reveal…?”

There is a moment where your eyes adjust to the darkness, but the lack of light doesn’t seem to impede the creature’s investigation.

“Look, see. Runes, embedded within fabric. Best not dwell on them too long.”

The room returns to light, but the examination is not yet finished.

“Curious. Tip is plain, not befitting of the rest… ah, loose, perhaps... removable? Indeed. Ah! More curious. Puncture wound wells with blood, yet needle-point remains unstained.”

The creature makes several jerky stabbing motions. “Balance not suited to combat, suggests… ritual purposes.”

The umbrella is returned to its wrappings, the creature handling it softly, almost reverentially.

“Curious. First glance – mundane object. Deeper inspection – beautifully wrought tool of necromancy. Where find you such exquisite treasure?”



A/N: So this one got a little odd (and not just with the idea of a necromantic umbrella). The creature's speech patterns were supposed emphasize how alien it was - I could have just described it more, but felt that that would be taking away from the core of the prompt.

-Irish

This comes from mirror-universe Warhammer 40,000, a project currently occupying most of my writing effort:

Abaddon looked upon the entrance to the Necron tomb with the eyes of a lifelong warrior. Some might have been overwhelmed by its sheer size, or awed by the brutal majesty of the windblown ruin. He saw it as just another fortified position, just one more obstacle between him and glory.

Death was a shadow. It was cast by Life, sweet, bright Life, for without him, Death had no meaning.

Death was empty. In the beginning - was there a beginning? Yes, there had to have been - before it had tasted of Life, it hadn't even known it was empty. But then had come that first time one of her had come into Death, and Death realized all that it was not.

Death was alone. It was, by nature, an ender, a destroyer, and it could not do otherwise. It wandered, and as it wandered, all it approached withered and were taken into it.

Death was weeping. It could not stop its consumption, for when it tried the hunger grew and grew and grew until it went mad with it, rampaging across the world of their children, taking all without regard for age or race of sex until it was sated.

Death was hidden. It walked across the world taking only one or two of her children at a time, wondering why it, the destroyer, was the only thing that could not be destroyed.

Death was found. Death was found by he who it had seen and thought beautiful from the moment of its birth, she whose children it had devoured, and tried to flee, fearing his wrath.

Death was held. Though it struggled, it could not break free, and felt itself, by its nature, begin to consume this glorious being, the one without whom Death might, at last, die.

Death was overwhelmed. For the first time in its long existence, it understood itself. It saw how, when in Death's presence, Life was faster, kinder, sweeter, brighter - how Life was More than he ever could have been alone.

Death was filled. For in Life's infinite being, it had found the answer to its infinite nothing, and while it could not choose to leave her children be, it knew, at last. It knew, and it would never be alone, for now they could be there with it, to

Death was infinite. And within infinity were all who had ever been brought forth by Life, born again into new selves made of Death, to be as the children once had been before Death, to be reunited with those lost to Death, and, one day, perhaps, to be released from Death.

Death was nothing. Death was everything. Death was happy.

((Did I turn describing Death as a character into a story anyways? Yes, yes I did. I don't know why. ... Aaaaaaaugh I'm going to go bury my head in a hole in the ground before somebody starts lighting this on fire.))

The Timekeeper was not Death, as humans invisioned it, but it was one of the entities in charge of death. The Timekeeper, along with the two Archivists, kept track of when and where deaths would occur. The Timekeeper currently liked to take the shape of a small figure shrouded in black robes, and flitted around the room to constantly check the state of various soul channeling objects- small candles, a few hourglasses, the newer souls mostly having alarms. Needless to say, it was quite a large room. The Timekeeper interacted only with the Archivists, sending the twins messages in some undefined way whenever a soul was snuffed out. They were constantly in motion, which was a good thing, considering what they did. The Timekeeper was also thankful for their lack of need for sleep, which was quite convenient for their job, but Archivists thought that they probably needed an assistant.

The Great Spire was so high that the top couldn't be made out through the clouds. True, it had seen better days: the team hired to clean it seventy years ago were now far too geriatric to climb up and scrub the bird poo off so its original stone-grey shine had long since faded.

But its height alone granted it a presence that other monuments didn't have. People had tried to climb it, but no-one had ever made it to the top.

No-one knew who had put it there, or why, or how. It had just appeared one night a century ago. Nothing one day, there the next. Rumour said that one day it would disappear just as it had appeared, but there was no sign of that happening.

The Great Spire lived on, just like the people in the town.

Prompt 1: Death
All information on the (now deceased) entity known as Death was given to us by the (also deceased) entity known as Knowledge and as such can't be corroborated, but is held as true nevertheless.

Death had no shape. At least, not as our senses bound by mere three dimensions could envision a being that inhabited the fabric of dimensions the way we inhabit the fabric of planets.
Like the rest of its race, Death was an abstract given entity (or an entity given abstract?).
Knowledge knew it as a very patient and friendly being; it was a finality everything and everyone would eventually stand before as equals, regardless of their deeds in life.

Prompt 2: the Monument
The Spiral Staircase, or the Staircase of the Gods, is a staircase in the shape of a helix measuring 70m tall and 20m wide. It is built from stones, each being 50cm tall, 50cm thick and 1m long and weighing an estimated 70kg.

The monument was built by the Pirite civilization to their pantheon, a race of beings collectively known as the Piras. The Pirites believed that their gods would one day return to the Earth "taking a twisting path" from the Heavens, which explains the shape of the structure.

Prompt 3: the Umbrella
When folded, it's a simple white umbrella. When unfolded, however, it starts floating in midair and moves not unlike a jellyfish.

Prompt 1:

Death is very old, and over its long existence it been many things--male and female and neither, old and young and ageless, physical and ethereal.

But, for the moment, Death has taken the form of an older woman. She has light-brown skin and dark, curly hair starting to go gray; she is plump, wears gingham dresses and sensible shoes, and seems to be in constant motion. This is a good thing, since she has a lot of work to do. Escorting souls into the afterlife involves a lot of paperwork. Lately, she has been somewhat irritable due to overwork. She is thinking of taking on an assistant, so that she has the time to sit down, drink tea, and read a book.